


Hot and Warm

by funnylittleguy



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Conflict, but shaw gets teeny tiny powers because i don't like him :-), meet-not-so-cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnylittleguy/pseuds/funnylittleguy
Summary: Charles's soon-to-be-ex has locked him out of their apartment in a fit of temper. Without his coat, his wallet, or his phone. On Christmas. He expects Charles to spend the night begging at the door. Charles walks out instead to the only place that is still open - a Jewish deli across the street. The owner had always scowled at Charles whenever he and ex stopped by, but at least it's warm in there and possibly the man will let him use the phone to call his sister.
Relationships: Charles Xavier/Sebastian Shaw, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 111
Collections: Secret Mutant Madness 2019





	Hot and Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kianspo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [kianspo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo) in the [secret_mutant_madness_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/secret_mutant_madness_2019) collection. 



> Prompt:
> 
> Charles's soon-to-be-ex has locked him out of their apartment in a fit of temper. Without his coat, his wallet, or his phone. On Christmas. He expects Charles to spend the night begging at the door. Charles walks out instead to the only place that is still open - a Jewish deli across the street. The owner had always scowled at Charles whenever he and ex stopped by, but at least it's warm in there and possibly the man will let him use the phone to call his sister.

**_ BAM! _ **

The ground beneath Charles' feet shook with the impact. Trembling more was Charles himself; he quivered with such violence that his knees buckled and he fell to the floor. The thin fabric of his slacks barely kept his skin from chafing against the carpeted floor outside his apartment.

His apartment.

He just got kicked out of his apartment.

_Sebastian kicked me out of the apartment._

Charles braced himself on the door with a still-quaking hand. His breath was strangely calm even as his mind churned and thrashed about, slamming against his skull like ocean waves against a towering rock face. Sebastian just kicked him out of the apartment. His breath grew more ragged. _His boyfriend._ His chest started to rise and fall ferociously, noisily; he collapsed head-first into the wood, his nose pushing out air where his treacherous mouth would expel a warbling animal cry.

Charles felt the mind before he heard the door.

The retiree down the hall was staring at him from the doorway of her refuge, wide-eyed and unblinking. Red and white light illuminated her plump, sweater-swathed frame from behind and caught in the silver-blonde of her shoulder-length hair. Charles didn't need to see inside the apartment to know the light was from the bulbs wrapped around a Christmas tree.

Sebastian didn't want a Christmas tree. He didn't like the needles.

He was about to vomit. No matter that he hadn't eaten anything than one of his classmate's Christmas cookies earlier that afternoon in lieu of lunch; his stomach was in revolt, along with the rest of him. His vision started to swim.

Through the nearly incapacitating tears and nausea, Charles managed to raise his hand and wave at the woman, still watching his descent into delirium with unwavering attention. The movement proved to her that the collapsed man in front of 11Q was alive. If the jolt of shock Charles felt against his shields were any indication, seeing a sign of life scared her. In the next moment she had pulled the door shut with the swiftness of a woman half her age, taking the light as she went. The grey of the complex was restored, more secular than ever.

Charles was alone. 

Not truly, of course: there were dozens of people nestled inside their two-bedroom two-bathroom apartments on either side of him, and even more beneath. Unsuspecting minds, prone to suggestion. If he stomped hard enough he could get some company in less than a minute. If he curled his hand into a fist and knocked.... A full body shiver ran from his neck to his toes.

What did he want? What could he do? Not even a phone number to call besides his classmates, who, despite being kind enough to give him a cookie on Christmas Eve, didn't know him. They all lived in apartments with each other or on campus, with hardly enough room for the new graduate transfer.

The only thing he could do was call Raven, which was not the least bit ideal, given the subject of their last explosive fight. Charles forced himself not to wonder what the subject was up to on the other side of the apartment door, not to cast his mind out towards it. It was like he was on mutation blockers, because he couldn't even feel a trace of him. Whether that relieved or scared him, he didn't have the energy to discern.

Slowly, Charles brought himself to his feet. His sister and her fiance Hank lived in Queens, which was over an hour train ride. He sighed and reached into his pocket for his phone. 

"Oh," Charles whispered, tears finally pricking in his eyes. 

His pocket was empty. In his mind's eye he saw his phone on the coffee table. His wallet was in his winter jacket; his jacket hanging off the end of the bed.

Shock never affected Charles right away. Its furious attacks were blunted by the hard, steely surface of logic on the first few impacts. Eventually his shields would collapse, and so would he, but not now. One foot put itself in front of the other, for which Charles was thankful, and continued to repeat the process until it took him to the elevator. Where was there to go but down?

Valiantly, Charles tried very hard not to think about anything. Through cracked lips, he repeated _one two three one two three one two two two two..._ Until the numbers were just noise, an atonal soundtrack to his recollection of the day.

_—_

"I hope you didn't bring me here for the _food,"_ Sebastian said. Ever the comedian, Sebastian attempted to stab at his salad with his fork; the lettuce fell limp to his plate with an audible _plop._

Sebastian set his fork down. "But, and correct me if I'm wrong, I'm going to guess that you didn't." With a still-gloved hand he gestured to Charles' side of the two-seater table, where he was nursing a plastic cup of water. All the air in Charles' chest left in a silent sigh.

"You got me," Charles sighed, weak from the onslaught of stress. _Already!_ He hadn't even started the conversation yet and he was breaking a sweat. He shrugged his windbreaker off his shoulders; Sebastian mirrored him, then pulled his gloves off finger-by-finger. He should never have taken Sebastian to the deli, not when it would get him in a mood. But Charles only had so much money to spend on Upper Manhattan restaurants, and it so happened that the only one open was the kosher deli. "I'm sorry your salad isn't... satisfactory, darling."

"They never are. For me, at least. _Your_ food always seems okay." He pushed the plate to the center of the table, then crumpled his unused napkin and threw it on top. "I should stop holding out hope."

"Yes... well, for that, I guess. The salads, I mean. Not in general." He winced. Bringing it up was always the hardest part. Maybe if he... Charles reached out across the red linoleum of the countertop towards Sebastian's hand. Instinctively Sebastian pulled away and let it fall into his lap. "Never mind, I, er. Well, I did come here to talk to you about something. A... a proposition, of sorts."

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles caught an employee glaring at them from behind the counter, cutting the wings and legs off a plucked chicken. His mind radiated heat. Heat was different from warmth: heat was anger, jealousy, or pain; warmth was love, yearning, or affection. If Charles paid attention for too long he'd get burned. He let his hand slip back off the table.

"A proposition?" Sebastian's eyebrows quirked up in amusement. "I thought you hated business."

Charles couldn't help but smile; he did so any time there was evidence that Sebastian had remembered something small about him. It was nice to be remembered, to have his little quirks and opinions tucked away in the mind of a busy man. 

"For you I'll make an exception," Charles said. Maybe it was just the intense hot air blowing from the vent next to their table, but he needed to remove another layer. He took off his woolen liner and hung that, too, over the back of his chair.

"So, you know how I'm graduating soon?"

"I think it would be impossible not to know. It's all you ever talk about anymore."

Charles paused, his brow furrowing, before saying, "Well, I'll be done in May. Which is also when the lease on the apartment ends."

It was Sebastian's turn to say nothing.

"What I was thinking was...." Jesus, Yaweh, Allah, Brahman, grant him strength, Charles didn't _care_ which. He could use all of their help. "What I was thinking _was...."_

His throat had closed, and he was forced to take another sip of water. Sebastian waited, clearly attentive, but Charles, still throttled in the grip of his mutation blockers, couldn't discern which emotion he was experiencing. He'd have to do it the old-fashioned way. The only parts of him that ever gave anything away were his eyes. Charles gave Sebastian what he hoped was an imperceptible once-over. His brown eyes were narrowed; he was curious, but suspicious. Not altogether an unwarranted combination.

Seeing as Sebastian was already on edge, there was no way he could come at this head-on. Charles set his cup down and asked, "How's your job going?"

That narrow gaze turned into a glare. "What?" 

"I—well," Charles stammered. In avoiding the obvious path he'd leapt right into the bramble patch. Bring up the job, why don't you! _Idiot._

"What _about_ my job?" said Sebastian, leaning forward in his seat. A loud _"SHIT!"_ erupted from behind the counter. Both of them winced and glanced back to the employee, who stared for a moment too long before disappearing into the backroom. Sebastian sat down again with a huff. "That guy is fucking bizarre."

Charles nodded, his focus on the fact that they were now alone. Not completely, of course, the worker was just in the backroom, but he couldn't see them. Couldn't see them hold hands, which is what Charles tried to do again.

"Anyway," Sebastian said, ignoring his partner's outstretched palm, "Why are you worried about my job?"

"Is that not a normal question?"

"Not when there seems to be an ulterior motive."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand he had tried to grab Sebastian's with. "I just... I remember you saying it wasn't going so well. What was that, last week?"

The vent rattled on beside them; it was the only source of noise in the deli. Charles could even hear the sounds of the street outside the windows.

"Last week," Sebastian rumbled. He reached across the table at last, but not, as Charles had thought, for his hand, but for his cup of water. With two large, noisy gulps, the water disappeared down his throat. "Why?"

Anxiety was rolling through Charles like river rapids, curling and cresting and twirling about in him. Sebastian had turned the conversation into an interrogation, or thought that _Charles_ had and was trying to defend himself. There was no way Charles, who had never been a very graceful, could continue this intricate dance.

"I want you to move into the Westchester house with me," he said, each word falling into the other like dominoes. _Clack clack clack._ Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Sebastian's eyes widened. Incredulity? Shock? Charles' heart skipped a beat. _Excitement?_

In their silence, Charles fell prone to a short bout of daydreaming. They'd have to renovate the century-old facilities, rehabilitate the gardens, and _immediately_ ripthe paisley wallpaper in the master bedrooms to shreds. But it would be worth it; within a year or two the place could be ready to teem with young mutants. And though Sebastian's mutation only manifested as low-level telekinesis, he seemed invested in the greater cause. Hopefully invested enough to base his life around it.

Sebastian's lips were parted, ready to tell Charles _yes, I would love that, I've been waiting for so long for you to—_

"What is _wrong_ with you?"

—

They were back again. The old one and the young one. The ugly one and the... not-ugly one. Erik supposed neither were ugly, but he had witnessed them when they hadn't thought he was looking, and now knew that the old man was quite grotesque and the young one was not. He was more than not ugly, though. Heat coiled in Erik's stomach, and with it came the queasiness. _Stop it, stop it, you're not supposed to—_

 _"SHIT!"_ Erik's eyes slammed shut in pain as the knife cut through his flimsy disposable gloves and into his finger, right above the first joint. The pots and pans started to shake. When the initial shock of the cut was over, he was left with anger, a bloody hand and ruined gloves.

Oh, and a biohazard. There was no way Erik could salvage it; the pink skin of the chicken was spattered a ruby red. No amount of cooking could make serving it legal. Though, maybe if he worked fast, he could have it sent to that table, and have the couple take it with them. Erik wasn't sure why he wanted that, but he did, and with unsettling desperation.

Cradling his hand, Erik looked up and saw the pair staring at him with wide, blue eyes. One set of eyes was much, much bluer than the other, and they belonged to the younger man. Perhaps a decade or so ago the older man had had blue eyes like that, but not anymore. There was nothing about that statement that had a factual foundation, but his innate Jewish superstition (passed down from his Mama and left to thrive by his Papa) felt that it could be true. The gaze held no warmth, only ice. A bad man, his Mama would've said. A _momzer._

A bad man indeed, Erik thought, remembering the time that he'd tipped 5% on a thirty-dollar order. Or the way he looked at the other man, the way he clenched his jaw when he was listening and not speaking. He realized in that moment that he had been staring for far too long; his hand throbbed in his grip, and the young man had only ordered a cup of water. Did he not like the food? Why did they keep coming back?

After another moment Erik's body took control and steered him into the backroom, where he collapsed on a bare mattress between the storage shelves. 

Next to the mattress was his backpack. In it was a collection of all sorts of things that either had some reason to be there or none; Erik felt there was something that he could wrap his finger with. The first aid kit was outside, in the visible kitchen, and after Erik's awkward exit he couldn't just reenter. Those two men occupied a strange space there that he couldn't put a name to like he could others. His father was like that, too, but at least he knew why. Maybe it was because they were obviously homosexual. At least the younger one was; Erik had watched as he stuck his hand out across the table, waiting for something. The other man was either stupid or cruel, because he kept on talking, playing with the salad Erik had drenched in too much oil.

Erik was in the unpleasant position of wanting that connection and loathing himself for it, and, worst of all, knowing that he needn't loathe it. He couldn't help himself: his mother had left too soon, and his father couldn't nurture. _Wouldn't_ nurture a mutant, much less an atheist, not to mention a gay boy.

So that could've been it. Erik was just jealous of the connection they shared, as much as a connection that anyone could have with a man with eyes of ice. It was more than what he had.

All he had was the deli and his father, and he wasn't sure he particularly wanted either. Twenty-four with only a high school diploma, Erik felt stuck in a trap made by his father's own design. But that wasn't fair, was it? Surely his father would've sent him to college if he'd had the money. And part of it was Erik's fault, too. He was too loyal, for whatever reason, to his father to let him take the deli on alone. Maybe it was less about his father and more about his mother, who would've wanted them to stick together. It was growing increasingly difficult.

Erik eventually gave up on his search for a bandage and wandered outside into the kitchen, his mind swimming with resentment for too many things. When he turned his aching head, he saw the young man was sitting alone at the table, his blue eyes staring out the window and into the street. Erik fought back the urge to say something, wrapped his hand, and put on a new pair of disposable gloves.

A few minutes later, the man got up slowly, like he was made of rusted metal, and made his way to the door. Erik hated himself before the words even left his lips.

"Merry Christmas," he called after him. Did Erik even know if he was a goy? Blue eyes pointed away from the semitics, but Erik had met some blue-eyed Jews before.

For a moment the man paused, stuck in place with a hand on the door. As he turned his head, Erik's finger started to throb.

"Happy Hanukkah," replied the man, and smiled sadly. Erik had forgotten that he was British. What an odd thing to forget, especially when his voice sounded like... _that._ Educated, high-end. The misanthrope in Erik added _snobby,_ while the gay part added _beautiful._ Erik shook his head to shut up the both of them. He lingered for a moment; a moment too long. A moment long enough to say:

"We're open till eleven." That wasn't true, Erik was going to close the deli at nine, but it was true now. "In case you... need anything else."

"Thanks," the man laughed. In the next instant he was gone. Erik was unsure why he'd said anything, but the intense burn of resentment flickered in his belly all the same.

—

Out of the three most important things confined to his locked apartment, Charles realized the one he wanted the most was his jacket. In the threshold of the apartment complex, he was hit with a blast of icy wind so cold that he almost started to cry. With fear, mostly: he had to brave that storm in his cardigan. He wasn't going to sleep in the apartment lobby, or outside his own door. 

But where _was_ he going to sleep? What was open? Who was willing? He stared out into the street he could barely see.

 _We're open till eleven._ The memory chilled him even more than the wind. Had that been an invitation? Was the writing on the wall big enough for others to see? 

Charles decided, and was quite proud of himself for doing so, that it didn't matter. At least, it didn't matter right _now._ Right now, he had to get to a phone and call Raven, then email his professors, and then... and then what? Would he live with Raven? Would he live on-campus? What was in store for him after this?

Each question mark felt like a stab in the temple; good _God_ what he wouldn't do for a blocker right now. Hell, take a hammer to his head. Charles found with a morbid fascination that he didn't care.

There was no way for Charles to know what time it was, but he knew it was before eleven. He had time, if he could handle the cold. The deli was only a few blocks away.

With bravery he was only just discovering, Charles pushed out into the snow.

—

At ten, Erik realized that he should've closed an hour ago. It was the second day of Hanukkah, and Christmas Eve. Not that he cared about either. Everyone else in the city, except the Chinese and the nonpracticing Jews, was home celebrating or sleeping, cooking or singing; something fun, or at least distracting. Slicing cold cuts wasn't nearly interesting enough to divert his mind away from his earlier encounter.

The two had had a fight, that much Erik could discern. No one leaft halfway through a meal, and no one was that shaken up about it, unless there was a fight. Knowing the older man, in the way that a stranger knows others, it had been his fault. What could the British one have said? Was he crueler than his eyes let on?

Erik wiped down the counters one last time, set his knives in the dishwasher, and swept the floors. He looked at his watch. Half-past-ten. As good a time as any, he supposed; there were no more visitors for today.

Still, his movements were slow and delayed as he went to flip the open sign on the door. Hope. For _what?_ What was he hoping for? Why was he hoping for it? 

Erik rested his hand on the door, like the man had earlier that day. Waiting for something. _What,_ though? His face heated when he realized it. Shame, liquid and burning, slithered through his veins. He knew what he wanted. He wasn't sure how his desire would even manifest in the real world; it wasn't like the man would just show up outside the deli door in the single-digit weather, asking Erik in that ~~beautiful~~ snobby accent—

"Could I come in?"

—

The deli was different at night. Neon signage threw its light against the glass and found itself reflected back, bringing a warmth into the place that Charles hadn't noticed before. Warmth. It was _warm_ in here, so pleasant. Leagues separated from the deli he'd been in earlier, with the rattling vent and the sullen employee. He dusted the snow off his shoulders and ran his fingers through his damp hair. But those were still here: the vent was as loud as it had been at one o'clock, and the employee was still looking at him warily, as if deciding whether or not to toss him back out into the cold.

"Thank you so much," Charles said quickly. He couldn't help his teeth from chattering. The employee's gaze settled on his torso, no doubt wondering about his lack of a coat. Charles could feel the confusion coming off of him in tidal waves. There was something else there, too, a sort of sickly emotion that Charles knew he was holding back himself. He decided not to press on about it; they were both uncomfortable enough as it was. "I..."

"What are you doing?" Regret stabbed at his shields, and Charles knew it wasn't him. "I, I mean, I—"

"I think that's a reasonable question as any," sighed Charles. His words were slightly slurred as feeling returned to his lips.

For a few breaths, all they did was stare at each other, grey eyes boring into his. They were pretty eyes, Charles thought. Not grey because they'd lost their color, but grey because they were _grey._ Those were the nicest eyes of all. 

Charles shook his head. "I'm sorry to ask this, but—"

"Don't be," the other man interrupted. He was stiff as he leaned his weight onto one of the two-seater tables. Charles watched, artificially impartial, as his muscles shifted to accommodate him under the rolled up sleeve. "I mean, it's Christmas."

"Not like you would care about that." Charles paused. "Is that all right to say? That seems... offensive."

The employee smiled a tight-lipped smile; one that meant he wanted to show his teeth. "Not when it's true.

"And," he continued, "I don't care about Hanukkah that much, either."

Charles smiled with his teeth, if just to show him that it was all right to do so. "Then this is all out of the goodness of your heart, eh?"

The sickly emotion bombarded his shields again; Charles was doing something wrong, or the other man was. Maybe both of them were.

"I, er. I need to use a phone. I don't... have mine." Charles didn't feel like explaining himself, especially when he felt that the employee already knew, and knew in the most embarrassing way.

"You can use my phone."

Charles pressed his lips into an apologetic line. "Thank you."

He disappeared into the back for a moment, long enough for Charles to realize fully what was happening. He just got kicked out of his apartment by his boyfriend of two years. He had walked six blocks through six-degree weather in only his cardigan and slacks to the kosher deli, where he was using the phone of a man who he'd only talked to through ordering food. He didn't even know his name. What was _happening._

"Here," the employee said, and handed him a very outdated iPhone that Charles hadn't seen in years. The screen was webbed with cracks, to the point where chunks of glass were missing. Charles narrowly avoided those as he typed in Raven's number, murmuring his thanks. He sat down at a nearby table and listened to the dial tone.

Eight rings later, Raven said, "This is Raven Darkholme; I'm not at the phone right now—" punctuated with a baby crying, which must've been Kurt "—so please leave a message after the beep. Thanks!"

Charles shuddered with dread, but waited until the beep. "Hey, Raven. Uh... You're going to love this. I mean. Kind of. I don't know. Er...

"Um. Sebastian, he—he, uh."

He swallowed against a dry throat, his tongue grating against his soft palate like sandpaper. "He... He kicked me out. Of the apartment. Our apartment."

Three beats of silence. This was a dance again, and Charles was too cold and too tired and too uncoordinated to step in time. The dams broke, and he told the phone: "I asked him if he wanted to move into the Westchester house—and he said that I was... un _grateful_ , I guess, because I wanted to move into a bigger house? Which is... it's _ludicrous,_ because it's not about the _house,_ I want to move there so I can open that school, and he called me _naive,_ which is so goddamned rich, I mean he was basically calling me stupid. And when we went home—we were at that deli, er, Lehnsherr's—he..."

Charles swallowed again and regretted it. "He kicked me out. And I'm calling from someone else's number because I don't have my phone, or my jacket. Or my wallet. So I can't take the train. Um. I'm not exactly sure what I'm asking right now, but...." He laughed. "You were right. I should've listened to you.

"Anyway," Charles said with a heaving sigh, "I'm homeless for right now. Maybe you could... come pick me up, or something. I know it's late, and I'm sorry. If you could..." Charles looked at the employee, who he realized had been listening the entire time. He mouthed _Call me back at this number?_ and he shrugged and nodded. Charles smiled gratefully at him and continued, "call me back at this number, that would be great. Um. Merry Christmas, I guess. Bye."

Charles hung up the phone and almost cut himself on a crack in the glass. He handed the phone back to the employee, who pocketed it in his apron.

After a while, the man asked, "You're a mutant?" 

_Jesus Christ._ Charles took a deep breath, trying to control himself. There was only so much restraint he could muster at this point. "Yes. And if that's a problem, I can—"

"No, it's not, I— _I'm one too,"_ the employee breathed, and Charles knew that he meant more than just his mutation from the desperate, clinging look in his eyes. He softened immediately.

"When did you...," Charles began, and he didn't need to say anything more, because he replied, "Thirteen."

"Early manifestation. Must've been... alienating."

"Yeah. What, uh. What about you?"

Something warm flickered in Charles' chest. "Eight."

"Eight!" the employee exclaimed, his eyes going wide. "How did you...?"

"I just knew," Charles said. A smile crept across his face. The employee averted his eyes, the table creaking beneath his hand. _Oh,_ Charles thought. Then: "There's no reason to be ashamed—"

"I'm not." And that was final. Charles shut his mouth. "Do we wait for your...?"

"Sister," supplied Charles. He exhaled. "I don't know. It's late. She's probably asleep."

"As you should be," he said. "I have a mattress in the backroom, if you want to sleep there. It's not much, but it's... something."

Charles couldn't help it anymore. He seized forward and pulled the employee into a tight hug, stealing his heat _and_ his warmth. Tears pricked in his eyes. _"Thank_ you," he whispered. He laughed. "I don't even know your name...."

"Erik," the man wheezed.

"Erik... thank you." Erik shuddered in the embrace, and Charles knew what the emotion was without his telepathy. He was too raw from Sebastian to dwell on it, but he felt like he might be able to after some time passed. He released Erik from the hug but held him at the shoulders, watching his grey eyes flicker nervously across his face. "It's not something you have to hate yourself for, my friend. I know it may feel like you do."

"I know," said Erik. His voice broke in the middle. With what Charles knew was great strength, he cleared his throat and gestured towards the backroom. Pushing the doors open, Charles was led into a colder room, no doubt where the food was stored. In between two empty storage shelves was a bare mattress and a Jansport. "It's cold, and I don't have a blanket or anything.... I don't really sleep the night here."

"Please don't apologize, you're making me feel...." Charles stopped, a lump in his throat forming around the words. _Ungrateful. Greedy._ "Bad."

"Don't," said Erik. "You're not."

 _How do_ you _know?_ Charles wanted to ask. He kept the question to himself. He _did_ ask, "Do you live around here?"

"Of course not," Erik laughed. "Do you think I could afford Upper Manhattan? I'm barely keeping this place up as it is."

"Oh," said Charles. "Then, where are you going to sleep?"

"One of the chairs, I guess."

"What! Out there? No! I'll sleep in the chair, you take the mattress. I'm not going to... steal your bed."

"Jews have to give up their beds to someone in need," Erik said. 

Charles furrowed his brow. "Is that even true? I don't think that's true."

"It's true." Erik winked at him, and smirked. "Look, it's fine. I'm not that tired anyway."

"Bullshit." Charles stood with his arms akimbo, and while he knew what the only solution to their problem was, was he comfortable enough with Erik to suggest it? Was Erik comfortable enough with him? Surely it was weird, but was it _too_ weird, _too_ strange? Charles thought back on the events of the day and found he didn't much care. "We can both sleep on the mattress. It's a full, but we can fit."

"Uh," said Erik. Panicking, Charles dove inside his head to know what kind of _uh_ that was. There was nothing there but static. Erik was panicking too.

"It's fine with me if it's fine with you. Worse shit has happened to me today," Charles said. He quickly added, "Not that it would be _bad._ Just different."

"Different, yeah, uh." Erik ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, I really can sleep in a chair, I've done it before."

It was too much too fast, Charles realized. Sleeping on a full-sized mattress with another man was going to overwhelm Erik, who was still hurting from the hug earlier. He sighed. "If... if that's what you're comfortable with. I just..."

"I'm fine, really. You deserve it more than I do."

And with that, Erik was gone. Charles shivered at the loss of warmth. How could he have been so wrong? About everything. About everyone. With creaking bones, Charles laid himself down on the mattress. 

Minutes passed, or hours; Charles was too cold to sleep, too restless to close his eyes. Thoughts, bad and neutral--some even good--swirled through his head. Sebastian, himself, Raven, Erik, even his classmates made their appearances. He shivered again and curled into himself, staring at the empty metal storage shelves. Somewhere a vent was blowing cold air, the metallic _whirrrr_ resonating in his stomach. He wished there was something for him to grab onto, like a blanket or a pillow or—

A weight dropped down on the other side of the mattress silent and careful. Charles' eyes flew open. 

Erik was careful not to touch him, but he could still feel the heat of his body against his own.

"Couldn't sleep?" whispered Charles, not daring to face him. The corners of his lips twitched despite himself.

Erik murmured something in response, but Charles couldn't hear him. Exhaustion hit him suddenly, and all other thoughts flew from his mind. He was safe. In the morning, Raven would call him back, and he'd go somewhere. Sebastian would wake up alone in his apartment, and Charles would wake up on a mattress on the floor of a kosher deli storage room six blocks away, with a man who wasn't a stranger pressed against his back.

\---

Except he didn't. When he did wake up, he was indeed on mattress, in the kosher deli. But Erik was gone, and his warmth had went with him. Charles clenched his teeth and got up, pushed the doors open. 

On one of the tables were two plates, each with some eggs and a bagel and some meat. Charles' eyes widened and he stared at Erik, who was pouring something into two mugs.

"Good morning," said Erik.

"Holy shit," whispered Charles, more to himself than anyone.

Erik laughed, deep and low. He was still in the same clothes he'd been in, but he looked more rested, more at peace. "Your sister called back this morning. She said she'd pick you up by eleven. It's a quarter after ten."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Wanted to let you sleep."

Charles sniffed, then pulled Erik into another hug. Erik didn't reciprocate, with two mugs in his hands, but his rumbling laugh was felt throughout Charles' body. 

"Merry Christmas, I guess," he said. He pulled away and handed Charles one of the cups. Charles peered into it. "It's hot chocolate. I wasn't sure how you wanted your coffee, and since you were sleeping, I thought..." He trailed off; his thoughts were still too intimate to share yet. 

Tears pricked in Charles' eyes as he realized something. "You don't even know my name."

"Oh," said Erik. "You're right, I don't."

"It's Charles. Charles Xavier."

"I like it."

"Thank you," laughed Charles, and he wiped his eyes. "This is crazy. It's like a movie."

"Movies have to be based on something." Erik smiled and studied his face until his smile disappeared. He set his mug down. "What happens to you after this?"

"I don't know," Charles admitted. "I go to Columbia, and I commuted from the apartment... so I really don't know what I'm going to do. I guess my sister will take me in while I find my footing."

"You can sta—" Erik stopped himself. "Sorry. I was gonna—"

"I don't want to burden you, my friend. But maybe I can visit." Charles found he really did want to. After a night of sleep Sebastian was still too fresh in his heart to fully conceptualize why, but part of him knew that he and Erik didn't end here. The thought hurt but excited him at the same time.

"Yeah," said Erik. His smile returned. As if admitting a great secret, he murmured, "I'd like that."

They ate their breakfast, which was better food than Charles had ever had at the deli before. "I don't mean to offend you when I say this," he began, after taking a bite of the omelette, "but why is this so good?"

Erik threw his head back with laughter. "And here you are thinking I'm a good person."

"What does _that_ mean?" 

"It means I've been making your...." he paused, searching for the right words, "the other guy's food taste like shit on purpose."

"What! Why?"

"He was a bastard. Do you remember on Valentine's Day when—"

"The five percent tip," Charles gasped. "I _do_ remember! I tried to make him pay more, but he wouldn't--"

"More than that, too. He was always such an ass to you. Speaking over you, glaring at you. It... It pissed me off, because..." Erik paused, choosing his words carefully. Charles half-wished he wouldn't. "Because you shouldn't be treated like that. I guess it was my way of saying 'fuck you.'"

"It worked. He hated you."

"Good. I hate him too."

Charles sighed. He didn't want to talk about Sebastian, or really anything about yesterday. Though he had slept, it wasn't enough to make up for the emotional and physical toll the day had taken on him. He wanted to curl up and hibernate.

They ate in silence after that, sometimes glancing at each other across the table before looking back down. Both knew what neither was ready to say. Charles hoped that they'd both one day be ready.

Erik's phone buzzed. "Oh," he said. "Your sister is a block away, she says."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well," began Charles, but then realized he didn't know how to express any of what he was feeling. "Erik, I—thank you. Seriously."

"Of course," said Erik, as if it were really of course. Outside Charles saw Raven's blue Toyota pull up against the sidewalk. She was blonde today. "Is that her?"

"Mm..."

Charles stood and Erik followed him to the door. They stood in the threshold for a moment, and Erik put his hand on his shoulder. Charles could feel the warmth of his hand through his cardigan, the warmth of his mind through his shields. Oh, how he'd misread him. _"Zei gezunt un shtark."_

Even though Charles didn't know Yiddish, he knew what Erik was saying from the warmth that emanated from his mind. "I'll see you... hopefully soon."

"I'd like that," said Erik softly. They stared, and Charles was now ready enough for this. He leaned onto his toes and pressed his lips against Erik's cheek. Erik shuddered against him, his breath tickling his ear.

"Happy... winter," Charles said when he pulled back.

"You too." 

Raven honked her horn. Charles realized she could see them, and his cheeks colored.

"Thank you again," he said, and ran out the door. When he turned around, halfway between the deli and the car, Erik smiled back with his teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays kianspo! I really wish I could've done a better job on this, but I'm in my senior year of high school and my college applications are kicking my ass! If you can't tell I'm right at the deadline, and my writing style somehow evolved in between my writing the first part and Erik's parts? Very odd. Anyhow, happy holidays everyone!
> 
> Yiddish translations:  
> momzer: "a conniving or untrustworthy bastard"  
> zei gezunt un shtark: "may you be healthy and strong" - a common yiddish way to say goodbye to someone you care about


End file.
